


Hole in my Soul

by KaelsMiscellany



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Banshee stuff, F/M, Peter has it, The Hale Fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 06:41:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaelsMiscellany/pseuds/KaelsMiscellany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The door opened far too quickly for her liking, revealing Peter. <i>Of fucking course</i>. She narrowed her eyes. “You.”</p><p>“Really Lydia, this again?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hole in my Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [UnitedKingdomOrgy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnitedKingdomOrgy/gifts).



> UnitedKingdom-Orgy requested: Give me something with angsty and closed off Peter and Lydia trying to get him to open up and tell her whats wrong but he is being angsty and pouty. Then Lydia has to get possibly violent with Peter and knock some sense back into him (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧
> 
> It kind of got away from me, but I'm happy with how it ended up.

Peter watched Derek leave and only after he couldn’t hear him anymore did he move. One by one he plucked Talia’s claws and tossed them onto the coffee table. Each clattered around for a moment, but not a one fell off.

He picked them up and let them fall again, their clattering sound reminding him of knucklebones and runes, though he doubted his sister would be so kind as to divulge the future to _him_.

This time he let the claws be and stared at them, feeling a little morose; he hadn’t been lying to Derek when he’d said he wanted them because of sentiment, though he could understand why the pup would question him. The relationship between him and his sister, as far as Derek knew, had never been all that smooth. With a sigh he fell back onto the couch. “Well ‘Lia I can’t tell if I’ve won or lost this one.” A sad fact in and of itself.

Unsure of whether or not he wanted to indulge in the memories that threatened to consume him, he floundered and they consumed him anyways.

_Hey Petey. . ._

-

Lydia raised her hand to knock on the door, then lowered it, then raised it, then lowered it again.

Clenching said hand she tried to banish the panic trickling into her mind. For all she knew no one was actually here, she certainly wouldn’t want to live here after what happened; also it was well past midnight.

 _What bearing does the time have on whether or not someone lives here?_ Even slightly sleep deprived logic was as pesky as always. Ignoring it she raised her hand a third time and finally knocked. She might not have had super hearing, but a loud thump was hard to miss.

The door opened far too quickly for her liking, revealing Peter. _Of fucking course_. She narrowed her eyes. “You.”

“Really Lydia, this again?” His words might have been snarky, but his voice lacked its usual bite.

For the first time Lydia could recall emotion was the one tell her to let it go and just tell him about Barrow, Kira, and her suspicions; while _logic_ insisted she find out what his problem was. So, drawing herself up and pulling on her best ‘in charge’ demeanor, she brushed past him and into the loft.

“Yes Lydia, come right in.” Again sarcasm without the bite, it was almost sickening really. She debated on take the direct or sly approach, then decided that, really, there was too much secrecy going on in this town.

Which meant she turned to face him and crossed her arms. “What is your problem?”

Peter sneered. “I don’t know Lydia, perhaps my problem is the hoard of idiotic teenagers who can’t even go five minutes without causing yet _another_ crisis.”

Finding herself completely unimpressed, she arched an eyebrow. “Well you really have no one to blame but yourself. You _did_ start everything.”

Apparently Peter was, in actual fact, twelve, because he stormed over to the couch and threw himself onto it. Dear God, it was almost like dealing with Jackson again. Resisting the urge to hit him, thought she filled it away as plan B, she sighed. “You might as well get it out, emotional constipation seems to precipitate most of those crisis you’re complaining about.” She opened her arms in a ‘well’ gesture “Get it out now and who know what problems we can avert.”

Peter opened an eye for a moment then contemptuously closed it. “Flawless logic as always Miss Martin,” he made her name sound far too dirty, even when he was angry, for her liking. “But I’m hardly a hormone driven teenager who just needs a shoulder to cry on.”

Striding over to the couch she narrowed her eyes. “You could’ve fooled me.”

Well at least that got a snort of amusement out of him. She started to speak again, but stopped short when she noticed the. . .whatever they were on the table. Hunching down she squinted at them for a moment, but decided to not chance touching them. In this town that would be like lighting a short fuse on a big bomb. Standing she looked down at Peter and crossed her arms again. “You know even supposedly grown-ass werewolves need therapy too.”

He opened his eyes and stared straight into hers and she had no idea whether she should be pleased or annoyed, not a whole lot of people met her eyes these days. Peter arched an eyebrow. “Mathematics not enough for you now? Trying therapy as well?” He shifted around for a moment, then rested his hands on his waist. “Well Miss Martin it all started when I was still an egg in my mother’s uterus.”

The burst of laughter that escaped her surprised even her. 

And that was apparently enough to mollify Peter a little. “Your concern, while surprising, is _severely_ displaced. And I would appreciate being left to myself.”

She huffed and turned to leave, only to have her foot _somehow_ catch on the table, sending her sprawling forward. Her arms shot forward to break her fall and, of course --because this was her fucking life--, her hands touched the things sitting on the table.

 _Fanfuckingtastic_. Something dark pulled her under:

 _Smoke fills her nose as she tries to scent someone,_ anyone _, in this inferno. Hunching down to the floor she decides she can risk calling out. “Glenn? Merry?” All she hears in reply is the roar of the fire. “Alex? Peter?”_

 _Something that is possibly a human groan answers on her left. Getting as close to the ground as she can she begins crawling that way. Only stopping when she hits Glenn's body, her wolf howling in despair, she herself letting out a chocked sob. Her parents had raised her to be calm and collected under pressure, but_ this _, this is too much to even think of bearing._

_The fire is hot enough that her tears evaporate almost instantly, making her want to cry even harder. Trying to hold back hacking coughs she continues crawling until she finds Peter trapped under a support beam, but still alive. Even with her dwindling strength it's easy enough to push it off. Uncaring of what it might do it him she digs her claws into his shoulder._

_He snarls and opens his eyes, glowing guilty-blue. Her hand still gripping his shoulder she begins pulling him towards the kitchen and the basement trap door. “Have you seen anyone?”_

_Peter just looks at her for a moment, as if he can't comprehend her words. Then: “I saw Alex go upstairs to try and get Sam.”_

_As if in horrific counterpoint, the flames roar even louder and they watch as a corner of the house collapses. They both continue crawling. They pass Aunt Merry's body in the kitchen; this time she barely pauses, though she hears a choked sob from Peter._

_Finally they reach the trap door and together they yank it open, the fire's down there too, though not as fierce. “Yank down the middle shelf on the west wall, it opens a secret passage.”_

_A pained expression crosses his face but he nods. “What about you 'Lia?”_

_Her old nickname is a shock she can't deal with right now. “I've got to find Alex and Sam.” Her mate and youngest need her. Peter starts climbing down the ladder, but she stops him before he gets too far. “Swear that if I die you'll protect my children.”_

_Peter's face shutters, and part of her wants to pull him close and say she's sorry for everything._

“ _I swear on my marrow.”_

_The force of his oath surprises her, and she finds herself smiling a little. There's so much more she wants to say to him: that she forgives him for what he did to Paige all those years ago, that she misses the pranks they used to play, that she loves him, but there isn't enough time for any of that. Instead she looks him in the eyes. “And swear that you'll find whoever did this and make them pay.”_

_Anger blooms on his face and her blood chills at the sight. “With pleasure sister.”_

_Finally she lets him go and begins making her back back to the entryway and the stairs. A sharp whine drives her faster, at least until she realizes it isn't a sound made my her pup or mate, but by steam in the pipes. But she still continues on._

_Now on the second floor, all she smells, sees and tastes is smoke; and even though she's nearly flush to the ground she gets mouthful after mouthful of it. She knows Alex is close though, she can almost_ feel _it._

_By the time she reaches the nursery her breathing is labored and her vision begins to gray. With one last final push she touches the door and shoves it open._

_And there on the floor, just barely visible is Alex, her handsome wonderful mate, with Sam clutched tightly in his arms._

_Neither of their hearts are beating and as she stares at them something in her breaks. Curling up she begins to cry again, great heaving sobs shaking her body._

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sor–

_Blackness._

Lydia inhaled violently and recoiled from the claws. Almost instantly Peter was at her side a. . .concerned look on his face. For a moment he disappeared, all she knew was the sight blackened flesh and the smell of cooked meat. Her stomach heaved and Peter reappeared. “I'm going to be sick.”

Quickly, but smoothly, he escorted her to the bathroom. She knelt in front of the toilet at apparently just the right moment, her mind conceded the fight and she vomited. Too warm hands brushed back her hair, and she hated how grateful she felt for that. Eventually her stomach gave up the ghost and she slumped gratefully against the opposite wall.

As if through bad reception she hear the toilet flush and Peter walking away, though he returned surprisingly fast putting a hot mug in her hands. “Chamomile tea, it'll help.”

She drank, if only to get the taste of bile out of her mouth. Almost meekly she let Peter lead her back to the living room and the couch, Her stomach gave an unhappy gurgle at the sight of Talia's claws, but she ruthlessly tamped it down, she could, and _would_ , control herself.

Listlessly she watched as Peter picked up the claws and put them into a cylinder. “They showed me the fire.”

His movements paused for a moment, then resumed. “I assumed as much.”

“How?” She put the empty mug on the table as forcefully as she could without breaking it.

Closing the cylinder Peter sat on the coffee table so they were face to face. “Despite what everyone thinks Lydia I am _not_ the font of all knowledge. And to be perfectly honest banshees are so rare that there's very few facts known about them.”

 _Wonderful_. “Were you thinking about the fire before I came here? Is that why I saw it?”

Peter closed his eyes, but shook his head. “No. I do my best to avoid thinking about that, I tend not to be myself when I do.” He seems unaware of his clawed finger digging a spiral into the wood of the table, and she decided not to mention it. “Before, however, is fair game.”

She shifted, discomfort filling her like worms. “Do you want to talk about it?” He might have said 'no' before, but things were different now.

“But one by one we must all file on/ through the narrow aisles of pain.” He spoke as if by rote, saying something heard so often that it didn't really mean anything anymore.

Will if they were doing recitations: “Drive your cart and your plough over the bones of the dead.” Apropos, considering who she was talking to.

He gave a strange smile, full of teeth and misery. “You have me there lovely banshee.”

Needing something to do she stood and took her mug to the kitchen, shivering when she passed through a spot she knew was only cold for her. Setting her mug down she rested her arms on the counter and made herself think only about breathing. She knew Peter could hear her, but at least he let her not-cry in peace.

With a sigh she collected herself for the second time that night and forced her body to head to the door; if she stayed any longer she had no idea what she'd do, she was far too unsettled by the night as it was.

“Lydia.”

She turned to see Peter standing, faintly lit by the waning moon, but she didn't speak.

“Thank you.”

Still not speaking she turned around again, all the better to hide her smile, and left.

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Peter quotes is _Solitude_ by Ella Wilcox  
>  and the one Lydia quotes is _Proverbs of Hell_ by William Blake


End file.
